


beneath only the distant stars

by distractionpie



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Dating, Flirting, M/M, Medium Burn, Messy, Unimaginative plot twist is unimaginative, Unsafe behavior with blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: It has been over a century since Joseph Liebgott's birth and centuries more of immortal boredom loom ahead, until a chance encounter in a nightclub puts him face to face with the first person in decades who seems able to resist his supernatural charm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliaaaaaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliaaaaaa/gifts).



> A few weeks ago I asked for drabble prompts and Alia suggested vampires. And y'know, drabbles & multi-chapter fics they aren't so different, it's a slip anybody could make, right?
> 
> Warnings for some brief anti-semitic remarks/attitudes and holocaust denial in the first chapter.
> 
> Warning for vampire-genre typical violence/gore/bloodplay in later chapters.

Seventy years is enough time that Joe's gotten good at this. The game, the dance, the hunt – there's all sorts of names for it but it all boils down to the same thing. The club is dark and smoky and the bass is pounding as he slips his way through sweaty bodies searching for his next meal in whatever form it might come. He'll know what he's looking for when he sees it, and he's got time. He's hungry but he's not starving yet, he can afford to be choosy.

The dance floor is crowded, and once he would have enjoyed losing himself among the writhing mass of bodies, knowing that all it would take was a few lazy words and whoever he chose would be pliant in his arms, ready for him to lead them out back to drink and screw until all his urges were sated.

Now the thought bored him.

His sire had warned him when Joe was still adjusting to the bite that he was a true predator now and that came with an instinct to hunt and to fight, that easy pickings would grow tiresome after a while, that a spirit like Joe’s was never meant to go unchallenged and the bite would only add to that, but Joe had grown lax of late and now every part of him was aching for the thrill of the chase and the fight. It would take more than blood to sate his hunger now.

Too many years of nothing but fleeting physical connections, never for more than a few nights lest his chosen partner began to question all the ways in which he wasn't quite human anymore, had left him cut off from society and listless. He'd invested his way out of needing to work decades ago, and for a while he'd enjoyed the freedom, but sometime in the last decade he had fallen into a rut of sleeping and feeding and brooding over whether he even wanted to be a part of a modern world that was so eager to go down a path he'd once died fighting against.

Nobody had ever warned him about just how tiresome immortality would become.

He scans the crowd looking for someone, anyone to amuse himself with. His eyes dart over pretty girls in short dresses and rich guys in tight shirts, sleeves rolled up to show off not muscle but expensive watches. There are a few his gaze lingers on but he never stops for long until-

Just off the side of the dancefloor, a man in a red shirt meets his gaze. Someone else is talking with him, but that doesn’t stop him from smiling flirtatiously in Joe’s direction and Joe slowly begins to drift in his direction. He’s handsome enough, in a generic sort of way, tall and dark eyed, visibly fitter than most of the guys here. He looks like he might be a surfer, with a natural sort of tan and thick dark blonde hair that looks like he spends a lot of time in the sun.

By the time Joe has made his way over, Blondie’s company has disappeared, but Joe isn’t much interested than that. He leans in close to Blondie’s space, “Lookin’ for some company?”

“Looking for some interesting company,” Blondie says challengingly. “You got what it takes?”

Joe smirks, sliding into the booth. “You tell me; you were the one eyeing me from across the room.”

“I’m Chad,” Blondie introduces himself, but Joe isn’t really interested in that.

“I’ve not seen you around here before,” he says, dialling up the charm.

“Oh? Do you come here often?” Blondie is angling himself towards Joe, leaning and, and oh, this is going to be so easy.

But then there’s the sound of somebody clearing their throat behind Joe, and Blondie pulls a face. Apparently his date is back.

Joe turns to tell him he can fuck off, and then hesitates.

Blondie’s date has a face that looks like it ought to be sculpted in marble and the bluest eyes that Joe has ever seen, going a little wide and wounded as he looks from Blondie to Lieb and works out he’s been ditched. Joe’s mostly wondering just how terrible Blue-Eyes’ personality for Blondie to ditch him for Joe when Blue-Eyes looks like he walked right off a movie screen. He tries to shift his demeanour from confrontational to charming, half hoping that he could salvage a two-for-one deal out of this, but Blue-Eyes doesn’t look malleable as he slams one of the drinks he's holding down on the table, glancing at Blondie and rolling his eyes haughtily before raising the other glass to his lips and gulping it down. Joe watches the bob of throat as he swallows, draining the glass without pausing for breath. It makes his mouth water a little.

He’s waiting for the yelling, or maybe for Blue-Eyes to take a swing at him, but he just sighs, frustrated, and heads straight back towards the bar.

“Spineless,” Blondie says scornfully, “And boring.”

Joe laughs. “So what was it you were talking with him about that got you so eager to go for me.”

“Politics, although it was pointless,” Blondie explains. “Webster is always so… simplistic about these things, all sorts of childish moralistic nonsense, but I’m sure someone like yourself understands the need for drastic measures to protect our country from those who have no true loyalty to it."

"Uh, what?" Joe gave up a lot to protect his country, but something about Blondie's reference to loyalty makes him uneasy. From what he’s bothered to read of the news, there’s already been drastic measures aplenty, few of which he’s agreed with.

“Yeah. Trump is going to put the power back in the hands of the people, instead of the corrupt wall street Jews,” Blondie says, and smiles like he’s expecting Joe to agree with the shit he’s spewing. “They’ve been cashing in for too long on the pity from all the gas chambers bullshit, it’s time to send them back where they came from.”

This time Joe leans in with entirely different intentions. “Fuck you,” he spits, the words barely skimming the surface of his anger. He can feel his fangs extending as rage boils through his veins. He could rip the guy limb from limb, and would anybody really care? It would make a mess but in a club like this there’s always going to be a mess by the end of the night. He lets himself imagine it for a moment, tearing this guy’s throat open and letting him bleed, bleed until it was agony, tell him he might let him live if he gave up the names of every friend he had who agreed with that shit so that Joe could go and correct them too, and then kill him anyway. Instead he stands, fists shaking at his sides with the effort of restraining himself, he takes two steps away, reminding himself that this club is too good of a hunting ground for him to risk getting banned for fighting, then turns and clocks Blondie right across the face anyway. The sickening crack of his jaw shattering in the face of Joe’s supernatural strength is almost soothing. It will be weeks, if not more, before he’ll be healed up enough to talk any more shit.

There’s a part of him that wants to swing again, but being arrested could get complicated because it’s not like cops would be accommodating of his need for a steady supply of blood and to be kept out of the sunlight, so he slips into the crowd, lets himself become just more body in a sea of humans and tries to tell himself that one idiot doesn’t matter, but the truth is there’s dozens more and if Joe thought for a moment he could pull it off he'd rip each and every one of their throats out.

He needs a drink, elbowing his way roughly towards the bar, and settling into a stool near where the bartender is standing. “Whatever your cheapest whiskey is,” he calls out, “Neat.” He doesn’t care for taste right now, just the sweet haze of intoxication – and ever since he’s turned he’s needed to drink hard to get there.

He turns his head, watching as his drink is poured, and only then realises that he’s managed to grab a seat right next to Blue-Eyes – Webster, who Blondie had dismissed on the grounds of his morals, a rejection that seeming more and more to Joe like praise.

He catches the bartenders eye and tips his head in Webster’s direction. “… and another of what he’s having.”

Webster’s head snaps up, glaring hard at Joe, and _oh_ it’s been so long since Lieb has known anybody who wasn’t immediately drawn in by the natural persuasiveness being turned had given him, but it seems that this guy might be the exception.

“You think I want anything from you?” Webster says coldly.

“I think you owe me for giving you a reason not spend another minute with that neo-nazi douchebag,” Joe replies.

“Neo-nazi?” Webster says, looking reassuringly disturbed. If he’d knowingly been with a guy who believed in that shit then Joe would have given the night up as a wash and gone home.

“Sorry – ‘alt-right’,” Joe corrects disgustedly, knocking his drink back and waving to the bartender for another. “Because we defeated the Nazis, but if you slap a new name on your anti-Semitism it’s all good in America. And obviously the holocaust was all a fuckin’ conspiracy.”

“Oh god, was that where he was going with his whole ‘it’s important to challenge the way the education system misrepresents history’ angle?” Webster says incredulously, finally taking a sip of the drink Joe had bought him. “So you left him?”

“So I decked him,” Joe corrects. Webster’s eyes widen for a moment but then he nods.

“Good. I knew he was a prat but I didn’t realise he… I don’t know why I always seem to…” he sighs, shakes his head, “I guess do owe you a thank you anyway.”

Joe shrugs. “How did you even end up with him?”

“He’s a work… acquaintance,” Webster says, sweeping his fingers through his hair. “It was a set-up by a colleague who thinks I need to socialise more.”

Joe raises his eyebrows. "Pretty sure you could have spent the last decade of your life sitting in total silence in a dark room and still not be desperate enough for _his_ company."

Webster gives a startled laugh.

“Well I’m a freelance writer, so that is an awful lot of what I do,” Webster confesses, sipping at his drink. “You?”

“Eh… I have investments,” Joe says, annoyed that he doesn’t yet have a good enough read on Webster yet to judge if he should be using the ‘oh yeah I’m in finance, that’s right I’m loaded’ angle or if ‘I’m technically unemployed and such a free spirit’ was more Webster’s thing. The choice of club and Webster’s aesthetic suggested the former but freelance writer is a super hippie job that is code for unemployed half the time anyway.

Webster looks him up and down, once quick and assessing, and then a second time that’s a slow drag of his eyes like he’s looking right to the core of Joe. Smirking, he says, “Funny, you don’t look much like a banker.”

“The thing about investing,” Joe says conspiratorially, “Is that if you’re good at it, you shouldn’t need to wear a monkey suit and work at a bank for a salary.” Of course, immortality helped, but he wasn’t going to mention that.

“Oh, and you’re that good at it?” Webster says with a laugh.

Webster, he concludes, is neither spineless nor boring. “I’m amazing,” Joe declares, leaning over and placing a hand on Webster knee...

Webster pulls back. "Seriously? You get my date to ditch me then realise he's an asshole and your backup plan is to make a move on me? Are you _that_ desperate to get laid?" he says witheringly.

"Not just to get laid." The collar of Webster's shirt frames his throat so nicely and Joe is hungry. "And he decided to ditch you on his own."

"You were flirting with him," Webster says scornfully, "What other outcome could you have been going for?"

Webster was definitely flirting, but since Joe is pretty sure he's blown his chance by rushing, there's little harm in being frank. He raises his eyebrows and leers. "No reason we couldn't have made it a party."

Webster still looks judgemental but his lips are quirking at the corners as he says " _Seriously?_ ” again.

“Seriously,” Joe says, with his most alluring smile, the one that makes more people melt into his arms, “But it’ll be even better now it’s just you and me.”

Webster rolls his eyes. “Brazen,” he mutters, pulling a pen from his jacket, he uncaps it and grabs one of the cheap cardboard coasters off the bar, flipping it to write on. “There, now you have my number,” he says, sliding the coaster in Joe’s direction. “In case you feel like really proving you’re worth my while.”

He stands, knocking back the last of his drink, grins at Joe – then turns and walks away.

Jaw slack, Joe tracks Webster through the crowd, waiting for him to change his mind, or at least look back. People always look back. Joe’s a naturally attention grabbing person, and ever since he was turned that’s only intensified.

Webster doesn’t turn. He doesn’t pause. He walks right out the door and Joe finds himself waiting with baited breath for Webster to return for one long minute, and then another, before it finally hits him that Webster really just walked away from him.

He hasn’t been left hanging like this since that one time with Mary Fisher back in 1942 and when he chews on his lower lip in thought he realises that he’s let a little fang slip without meaning to.

_God damn…_

He pulls out his phone, inputting the number from the coaster, and sends a single text.

 _‘And now you have mine – Joe._ ’

Not too desperate but enough to make sure Webster knows that Joe didn’t just leave that coaster on the bar to go chase some easier ass. He takes one more look around the club but his heart isn’t in it. He's still hungry but he's not prepared to face a third disappointment. There'll be another crowd tomorrow and he won't starve by waiting until then.


	2. Chapter 2

Joe is getting ready to hunt, doing his best to make his hair fall in line without the assistance of a mirror (he doesn't need designer clothes or primping to catch his prey but it’s more discreet to keep up the appearance of being a normal club goer) when his phone beeps with an incoming text. He lives alone so fortunately nobody sees the way he startles and looks around for a moment before finally identifying the source. He doesn’t get a lot of texts. His personal number isn't something he makes a habit of sharing.

He swipes into his messages and it only takes him a second to recognise the new message as coming from the guy at the club the other night – Webster, with his blue eyes and pretty throat and ability to walk away from Joe, and to make Joe do something as reckless as text him.

There's no proper message, just an address on a street that Joe vaguely recognises as being on the fringes of the city's cultural district. It's the other side of town from where he'd been planning to try his luck that night, definitely not a good hunting area, but he finds he's intrigued.  Perhaps a few days of playing hard to get is all that Webster needs and tonight Joe will have his shot. Worst case scenario, he waits one more night to hunt, blood bags are gross and expensive but he won’t starve. There’s little doubt that, cooperative or not, Webster will be more fun than some drunk who’ll just fall onto Joe’s fangs.

He takes a cab to the address in the text. A real cab not an Uber, never an Uber not even in desperation, it’s too much of a betrayal of where he’s come from. En route, he resolves to take things slower this time, let Webster make the first moves, let him think he’s in control so that he doesn’t run away before Joe can get his fangs in him.

When the driver reaches the street, it looks mostly residential and when the driver asks him for a house number Joe waves him off, he’ll better be able to spot Webster on foot. He tips a fifty, hopes the driver takes the chance work a few less hours a week, spend a little more time with the woman and kids in the photograph taped up beside his ID and the fare details, a little more time living his short life. Joe shakes his head. One interesting conversation with a living person and he’s getting all sentimental. Disgusting.

It’s dark enough that he feels comfortable being outside, breathing in open air is a rare indulgence when he’s trapped in the shadows all day and his nights are most often spent in smoky clubs pursuing prey.

He finds Webster quickly enough, leaning against a lamppost and looking almost ethereal in the dim glow of the light, a cigarette hanging loosely from his fingertips as he talks quietly with a petite and heavily tattooed woman.

She looks over at Joe as he approaches, offers him a guarded smile, but it’s not until Joe says Webster’s name that Webster seems to notice him, and even then he only offers a quick nod of acknowledgement, instead of breaking away from his conversation.

Joe can’t remember the last time he was ignored, but Webster finishes his conversation, even pulling the woman into a quick embrace and waiting for her to leave before he finally turns to Joe.

“You’re early,” he remarks unapologetically.

Joe shrugs. “There wasn’t much traffic,” he says, “Most people are headed into rowdier parts of town at this time of night not out here.”

“Their loss,” Webster says confidently.

Joe raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Because this looks like a plain old residential street to me. Not much of a place for a date.”

“Follow me and you’ll see.” Webster turns towards one of the buildings, then pauses and glances back over his shoulder with a sly smile. "And who says this is a date?”

Joe rakes his eyes over Webster’s form. “You wear pants that tight every day?”

He’s expecting Webster to blush, but instead Web just laughs, the tilt of his head offering Joe the briefest flash of his throat before he leads Joe up to the building.

The door looks like it belongs to a walk-up apartment building, but when Joe steps inside he's met with the sound of classic jazz, the sort of thing he remembers from before he’d really started feeling the effects of immortality, and a few dozen people clustered around tall tables. The walls are dark panelled with polished brass fixtures, their severity offset by the draping curtains that section off booths around the edges of the room.

It's a nice joint, not the sort of place Joe would usually go, too intimate to be good for hunting, but perhaps the sort of place he'd have frequented back in the days when he'd wanted more for himself then to just eat and sleep.

Webster leads Joe through the place to a small booth at the back of the room, between the curtain and the angle it's almost closed off from the rest of place and Joe is surprised nobody's snagged it before them.

"Not such a plain old residential street after all," Webster pronounces, after sliding into his seat. "I got the impression you were a local, I'd have expected you to know all about discreet little places like this."

Joe shrugs. "I guess this just isn't my usual scene."

There’s no sign of a menu but when a pretty waitress makes her way over Webster orders for them both with an air of familiarity. Joe's not quite sure what to make of Web ordering for him but when their drinks are brought over Joe can’t pretend he’s not impressed by the selection. Last time Web had seen him he’d been drinking cheap whiskey, but whatever Webster has chosen for him now is the good stuff, going down smooth with every swallow, though it’s no brand he knows the taste of.

Webster's own beverage of choice is a wine that's already staining his lips a tempting shade of red as he sips and watches Joe's reaction.

"Okay, you have taste," Joe concedes. "And I'm getting the impression that you're not the starving artist type of writer."

Webster laughs. "I've been in the industry too long to sit around waiting to get my name on the best seller lists. I mostly ghost-write now."

Joe raises his eyebrows. "Oh yeah. Anything I might have read?"

"Almost certainly," Webster says, looking smug. "I'm not allowed to say who, but I've been on best seller lists under plenty of names other than my own."

"C'mon, you've got to give me a little more than that," Joe jokes, then watches Webster from across the table as Web talks about his work, still carefully skirting around sharing any truly juicy details about what big names were using his work, and tries to pin down what it was about Webster that made him so compelling. He's undoubtedly attractive, but a century has given Joe time to know plenty of people with perfect looks and to turn down their interest. Webster's initial blow off might have baited his competitive streak, but now he's proven he's caught Web's eye well enough that the man would ask to take him out, that urge should be satisfied. Instead Joe just finds himself wanting more, as if Webster might be interesting beyond just being a challenge.

Webster’s a good conversationalist, a little pretention in his wordings, but he draws Joe in with talk of literature and then of the state of movies these days. He’s clever, matches every one of Joe’s sarcastic remarks with a biting wit of his own and Joe doesn’t quite keep count of how much he’s drinking, he’s more interested in Webster than tracking how often the waitress discretely replenishes their drinks. He’s got an unnaturally high tolerance for alcohol and but he’s starting to feel the effects of the drink by the time their waitress returns and politely brings their attention to the late hour, thanking them for their custom as she places the bill on the table, before adding, “And we now have a tablet over by the bar if you’d like to book an Uber.”

Webster wrinkles his nose at the U-word. His obvious disdain probably shouldn’t please Joe as much as it does, but it’s nice to know that Webster shares his views, and Webster’s moment of distraction makes it easier for him to reach over and lay claim to the bill.

Webster raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to do that? For all you know I’ve taken you to the most expensive bar in the city.”

Joe pulls his card out of his wallet with a shrug. “I told you Web, I’m in finance and I’m good at it.” Normally people were at least a little impressed when Joe flashed his money about, but Webster just looked amused. He doesn’t stop Joe from paying though, just looks thoughtful as the bill is settled and they make their way out of the bar.

Webster’s must have been drinking something light on actual alcohol content as his gait is still even as they step onto the street, but Joe is more interested in pulling his coat tighter around him. He'd been told that after turning most vampires were resistant to petty things such as climate, but the memory of cold lingers in his bones. It doesn’t seem to be having the same effect on Webster who is wearing only a thin button down despite the chilly night air.

"Aren't you cold?"

Webster looks startled. "Cold?”

“Yeah it’s freezing,” Joe says. He might not feel it properly, but the few people they pass are all wearing jackets, a few of them even have scarves whipping about in the wind. Webster is definitely the oddity here.

“I don't really notice it,” Webster says with a shrug. “I mean I’ve lived places a lot colder than it ever gets here."

Joe nods, but internally he’s cringing. Why the hell are they making small talk about the weather? He’s pretty sure he was smoother than this at fifteen, but now instead of curling one hand under Webster’s jaw to expose his throat and sinking in his fangs, he finds himself shoving his hands in his pockets and scuffing his shoes against the pavement like an anxious schoolboy. He’s been on the back foot all evening, and to his dawning horror Joe realises that he doesn’t remember how to reel someone in without the advantage of the natural pull that came with vampirism.

He casts back to the days when he still went on dates and comes up with, “Want me to call you a cab?”

Webster shakes his head. “I already booked two before I came out.”

“You were so confident we’d stay till closing?” Joe asks, impressed by Webster’s assuredness.

Webster opens his mouth to answer, but before he can speak two cabs pull up the street in quick succession. “Looks like that’s us.”

“Yeah,” Joe says. He’d come tonight expecting to get Webster out of his system, either by realising he wasn’t quite as captivating as he’d first seemed, or by getting from him what Joe got from every other person who caught his eye. Instead he feels like he’s going to be headed home with more questions. He turns towards the cabs, but Webster’s hand catches his arm, tugging him gently back.

Webster ducks his head, soft lips pressing against Joe’s own in a touch that’s light but lingering, holding just long enough for Joe to get over his surprise and begin to kiss back before Web slips away.

“Call me,” Web says, with a smile that’s shyer than any he’s offered previously, right before he disappears into his cab.

Joe gets into his own cab in a daze, barely remembers to tell the driver where he wants to go, and if the guy had driven the long way in order to charge Joe extra, he wouldn’t even have noticed.  

“How much?” he asks, when they finally pull up to his building.

“It was flat rate booking,” the guy says, “Prepaid.”

Joe glances from the driver to his wallet and then shrugs and pulls out a hundred, handing it over and leaving the driver gaping at him in surprise as he exits.

It’s been that kind of night.


	3. Chapter 3

Joe calls.

He dithers over his phone for a while first, briefly considers using the internet to look up advice for how to handle the situation before he reminds himself that he isn’t some green kid and he’s had plenty of experience even if he is out of practise.

He asks Web to a movie. The pictures are a familiar place, over the last century the effects have gotten flashier and price of popcorn’s gotten higher, but the essence of the experience has hardly changed. He’d had one of the huge chain cinemas at the centre of town in mind, but Webster suggests a smaller independent place that’s doing a series of classic action movie reruns, and honestly Joe has spent eighty years living in this city and he’s starting to feel like he doesn’t know it at all.

He’s the first to arrive this time, collects their tickets and a generously sized but horrifically priced carton of popcorn and he’d glancing down at his watch and not worrying at all five minutes before the listed film time when Webster jogs in, windswept and a little breathless, offering apologies about getting caught up in his work.

They make their way into the theatre, the late showing quiet enough that they have their pick of the seats despite the fact the trailers have already started.

Instead of running trailers for new movies the picture house apparently chose to advertise its own upcoming broadcasts and Joe mostly ignores the previews of art pieces and foreign language films, choosing instead to watch Webster out of the corner of his eye, a chance to observe unnoticed as all of Webster’s attention was on the screen.

And then _that_ trailer had played.

As soon as he’d seen the title card Joe’s hands had curled unbidden into fists. That damn Battle of the Bulge movie, which was on every level an insult to all then men who had served there. The filmmakers hadn’t even bothered to make it look like winter, let alone keep the events accurate, and Joe had been half tempted to look the director up and put his fangs to the task of ensuring the man never orchestrated such a travesty again.

There had been few moments in his life that had offered as great amount of comfort as when he’d learned that Eisenhower himself had come out of retirement to let the world know just how much bullshit they were being served.

He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to reign in the sudden resurgence of decades old rage, and steals a sideways glance at Webster who has lost his enraptured look and is scowling deeply.

“Something wrong Web?” he whispers, and Webster shushes him, but a moment later leans in to whisper back, breath warm against Joe’s ear.

“It’s just lazy, when they don’t even manage to make the _trailer_ look historically accurate.” He sounds incensed.

“It’s all bullshit anyway,” Joe says wearily. “You only have to spend five minutes reading a paper to realise that people are doing exactly the same bullshit they’ve been doing for centuries and films like that just feed into it. Fuck, just look at the white house. So many sacrifices ignored that I don’t know why anyone ever bothered.” He knows he’s being too obvious about his bitterness, but he feels unsettled in his skin tonight, craving a violence he can’t get.

“There are people protesting,” Webster says. “Plenty of people want to do better.”

“They’re all talk,” Joe dismisses. All those coddled college students competing to see who could write the snappiest slogan, get the most likes on their protest pics, would fall apart if they ever had to deal with what was really involved in fighting for what was right. “Back in the old days people really fought to do better, and look how that turned out.”

“Really?” Webster says dryly, almost snide. “Are you going with the whole ‘greatest generation’ line?”

Joe turns on him, fighting to keep down a flash of fang. “Well what do you think they were, Web?”

“Mostly draftees,” Webster says, unflinching in the fact of Joe’s anger. “And plenty of the volunteers were only there to get the pick of positions instead of being drafted to some place low paid and dangerous.”

“Fuck off,” Joe says, even though he knows that Webster’s assessment of things is closer to the truth than many would be comfortable acknowledging, but he still resents the sacrifices being reduced purely to self-interest. He remembers plenty of guys who were scared, who dragged their heels, and who were brave because of peer pressure not innate inclination, they were fighting for their buddies not the cause, but that didn’t give anybody the right to dismiss their fighting. Hell, how many people had opposed America getting involved in the war at all, had dismissed news of Hitler’s atrocities as propaganda? “Maybe some went grudgingly, but at least they went. You think any of the kids who think liking a Facebook post makes them part of the fight are going to be any good if it comes down to it?”

“Comes down to what? Civil war?” Webster says incredulously. “There isn’t going to be an actual fight.”

“Oh, has there been _another_ ‘war to end all wars’ while I wasn’t paying attention?”

 “No. But I don’t believe that people haven’t learnt at least some of the lessons of history,” Webster insists, “Nobody is born a fighter, but if they have to they’ll learn.”

“Well that’s a nice line,” Joe scoffs. “I’ll look out for it in the next fifty shades book.”

Webster gapes at him, Joe scowls right back, and for a long moment they sit in tense silence before Joe deflates a little, breathes deep and uncurls his fists.

“…That was unnecessary.”

“Yeah. It was.”

Joe’s anger rarely goes away, but he can let it cool. This isn’t about Webster, not really, it’s about too many days of drinking disgusting bagged blood and reading depressing news articles and not having any real conversation so that now he finally has somebody offering more conversation than a cheap exchange of pickup lines everything that he’s pushed down is spilling out. He’s about to say something further when the title card for the movie they came for appears on screen and from a few rows behind them somebody shushes and he remembers where they are.

The movie isn't bad, it’s once he’d seen once a long time ago and forgotten most of the plot of, but it’s better than what little he had recalled. There’s tension lingering between him and Webster at first, but it’s chipped away at every time their hands bump over the popcorn and by the time the credits roll and they stand to leave it feels natural for Joe to entwine his fingers with Webster’s as they exit the darkened auditorium.

It’s creeping into the early hours of the morning, but this time it’s Joe who has the advantage of knowing a little nearby bar. It’s not as classy as the joint Webster had taken him to, but the beer is cold and at that time of night it’s quiet, one of the few venues Joe frequents that are meant for real conversation not the hasty flirtation of a pickup.

Despite the earlier friction, once they have drinks on the table the conversation flows easily enough – Webster apparently has opinions aplenty on the subjects of craft beer and classic cinema, and Joe is happy to challenge them. Joe usually has a good sense of timing, but something about Webster steals his focus, so they once again find themselves being ejected from an otherwise empty venue by workers eager to close up.

“It’s going to be a bitch getting a cab at this hour. Or did you plan for all this and already have two booked?” Joe teases once they’re back on the street.

“I don’t have any booked,” Webster says, “But my place is only a short walk from here, if you want?”

And god yes, Joe wants, but it’s only a few hours until dawn and if he goes then he risks finding himself trapped at Webster’s place. He’s never thought up with a good excuse for if he’s called out about his avoiding sunlight, and somehow, perhaps the stranger writer’s hours that Webster keeps, it hasn’t been an issue yet, but if he’s forced to impose upon Webster’s hospitality from sunrise to the next sunset, well it’s hard to imagine Webster accepting that without questions.

“I have work early,” he offers lamely.

Webster levels a well-deserved dubious look in his direction. “I thought you were successful with independent investments, all no monkey suits or answering to people?”

Joe shrugs. “I am. Mostly. But sometimes there’s stuff outside of my control, y’know?”

Webster still looks uncertain, and Joe can hardly blame him. After being so obvious about what he wants from Web, him turning Web down now he’s being offered a chance would leave anybody feeling messed around. This night, it’s hardly gone smoothly, but he doesn’t want to leave Webster with such a bad impression that he won’t get a chance to improve on it, so he leans up until his lips are just a breath away from Webster’s. “Trust me, you don’t know how much I want to,” he confesses, before pressing his lips to Webster’s.

He keeps it light until Webster relaxes and starts to accept the kiss, and then he deepens it, claiming Web’s mouth with his own. There’s a part of Joe that wants to turn the kiss into something rough, throw Webster against the wall and take him apart with his mouth and fangs until Webster’s pretty pink lips are red with blood and he’s pliant and Joe’s for the taking just like the people Joe usually drinks from, but he isn’t sure that Webster would let him. He’s not fighting Joe, but he’s not just taking it like people usually do. Webster’s kept his head tilted so that Joe is the one stretching into the kiss and one of Webster’s hands reaches around to press against the small of Joe’s back as he tips him, just a little, not a cinema dip but enough to leave Joe a little off balance, one hand grasping at Webster’s shoulder as he steadies himself.

When Webster pulls back from the kiss Joe can’t help his momentary gasp, the second in which he chases Wester’s lips with his own but it’s enough that Webster smirks down at him. “Yeah. You want to.”

Webster steps away and Joe has to lock his knees to keep from stumbling into the space he’s left behind. "I guess I should let you go," Webster says "Since you have work and all."

For a moment Joe is so silly with lust that he almost says 'work?', remembering his lie with only a split second to spare. “I… fuck…”

“Some other time,” Webster says, with a sinfully innocent smile.

Joe's lived over a century, travelled two continents, fought in one war and lived through half a dozen others. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in trouble like this before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holding onto a finished chapter until some progress has been made on the next one in order to set a sensible update schedule- what's that???
> 
> Also - note the rating bump since I'm pretty sure the final chapter is going to need it.


	4. Chapter 4

Joe takes Webster out a half dozen more times after their cinema trip, to bars and galleries and to see another movie - a new comedy that Web had rolled his eyes at the premise of, but every time Joe had glanced over at him during the showing he’d been grinning. Webster hasn’t made another attempt to invite Joe back to his place, and Joe isn’t quite sure what’s stopping him being the one to ask Webster, but every time he thinks it the words get stuck in his mouth.

This time though, maybe things will be different. It’s the first time since their initial date that they’re doing something that Webster proposed, and once again it’s a mystery. Joe is beginning to suspect that Web just gets a kick out of being enigmatic. This time at least he’s got something to go off. Web’s decided they should meet at the boardwalk, and told Joe to dress warmly and, rather suspiciously, not to worry about bringing his wallet.

Joe arrives early and spends the time scouting out the place trying to work out the reasoning behind Webster’s choice. There are a few cafes and an arcade, but he can’t imagine Webster as the arcade type. Most of the boardwalk is shut, it’s late, past time the tourists drifted either into clubs or back to their hotels and the place is mostly empty. The benefit to that is that he spots Webster’s approach immediately, a familiar silhouette strolling through the darkness until he finally settles beside Joe in the flickering light of the boardwalk.

Joe means to greet him, but the top buttons of Webster’s shirt are unfastened, exposing the length of his neck and the slight jut of his collarbones, the line of his tendons almost obscene; and Joe trips over his tongue, certain his palms would be sweating were that a thing that could still happen to him. Hell, he feels like they might be anyway, undead or not.

“It’s a nice night,” Webster remarks in lieu of a hello.

“Are you about to reveal to me some other secret wonder of the city I’ve never visited before?” Joe pulls himself together to ask.

Webster laughs, swinging the bag he’s carrying. “Well it’s not a secret, and I’d hope that since you live by the sea you must have made it to the beach at least a few times.”

Joe blinks. “We’re going to, what? Just sit on the beach in the dark?”

“I brought a picnic,” Webster says airily, which should be a ridiculous idea except for how confident he is in his assertion. “And it’s a new moon and a clear night, so even with the light pollution from the city there should be a lot to see.”

“To see?” Joe says, all he can see is darkness.

“What, you’ve never been stargazing before?” Webster asks, “C’mon.”

There’s a fence separating the boardwalk from the beach, which is closed off at night for safety reasons, but it’s only waist high and Webster vaults it without a moment of hesitation, leaving Joe no choice but to follow him over, his shoes hitting the sand with a dull thud.

The beach. It’s been so long since Joe’s been out to the ocean, it’s a pastime he’s always linked to summer and vacations, lost to him since he was turned and the sunlight became his enemy, but now beneath a sky lit only by the glow of the moon and the distant stars, Webster is offering him back a slice of the life he’d thought taken from him without a second thought.

Webster leads him a few yards towards the ocean, then pulls a blanket from his bag and lays it across the sand just beyond the furthest reaches of where the waves lap against the shore. There’s a strong breeze off the sea blowing Joe’s hair back as takes a seat beside Webster, but Webster makes for a decent windbreak, especially when he leans forward to unpack his picnic.

Joe is a little impressed with how much he’s manged to fit in such a small bag as he pulls out first a bottle of wine, then a crusty loaf of bread, and a cling wrapped plate of cooked meats and a bowl of fruit. Webster uncovers the fruit bowl, lifting a banana off the top and offering it to Joe. He hesitates – bananas haven’t tasted right since the fifties, but it might seem weird to say no. Webster’s clearly put a lot of thought into this, and Joe has been through enough shit that he can probably tough out eating a banana for the sake of politeness.

Peeling back the skin, he shuts his eyes and bites into the tip, letting out a startled sound at the taste and immediately taking a greater mouthful. It’s… not bad. In fact, it’s good enough that he finds himself wondering if he’s just always picked bad bunches when buying modern bananas. It’s creamy and soft, barely needing to be bitten at all, with a natural sweetness that tastes far better than any of the artificial crap most people eat.

He opens his eyes.

Webster is staring at him.

Aw shit. He’d being rude, and Webster is such a mannerly sort of guy. “Hey thanks Web… I ain’t had a good banana in sixt-” not sixty years, that is definitely not a number he can say, “-Six months or maybe even a year.”

Webster nods, seeming to accept Joe’s flimsy lie as an adequate answer, reaching into the fruit bowl and picking out a strawberry, inspecting it for a moment before biting into it’s flesh, the juice spilling out and trickling in red rivulets down his lip. Joe looks away rapidly, trying pull back his composure. He places his hand on the sand and then yanks it up sharply at an unexpected sting of pain. Glancing down he sees a single shard of broken glass, stained slightly with red and when he glances at the side of his hand there’s a matching gash.

“Hey Web, got any tissues in the bag of wonders there?” he asks, holding his hand up. “Only I’m starting to make a bit of a mess over here.”

Webster looks over at his hand and Joe watches as the blood drains from his face and he slams his eyes shut, turning his head away quickly.

“Uh… Web?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Webster says, sounding rattled. He rummages in the bag for a moment before withdrawing a fistful of napkins and shoving them in Joe’s direction. “Shit, I should have checked the area better.”

Joe wipes up the mess, it’s not that bad really once the initial rush of blood is cleaned away, the glass shard was only small and barely a dribble of blood continues seeping from the cut and he places the last napkin over that, holding it in place. “It’s just a scrape,” he assures Webster. “No harm done.”

"Sorry, I have a …thing… about blood," Webster explains, still angling himself away from Joe even though the tiny bit of mess is all covered up. Joe laughs, and it's maybe a little mean, but after all he's seen and done, even before he was turned, it's just too ridiculous to think of the fact that Webster is from a generation disturbed by sight of a cut that's no worse than if he's nicked himself shaving.

Gradually the tension unwinds out Webster and he lets himself look in Joe’s direction again, and despite the temptation to tease Joe does the considerate thing and keeps his bloodied hand tucked out of sight.

Web breaks the bread and splits it between them and they both pick at the meat plate and the rest of the fruit, passing the wine bottle back and forth between them all the while, no plates or cutlery or glasses in a way that makes Joe feel a little like he’s young and wild and sneaking around behind his parents back again.

Once they’ve finished the food Webster leans back to lay down on the blanket and tugs Joe into joining him. The sky looks huge, fading into the city lights in one direction and into the blackness of the ocean in the other, an expanse that makes Joe feel small for the first time in years. He remembers the last time he just looked at the sky, laying on his back in the dirt of a battlefield with agony shooting up his spine, too weak to even sit up and determine the site of his injury, unable to choke out a cry for a medic as blackness had clouded the edge of his vision, a slip into darkness that had only been interrupted by the sudden sharp pain of a bite as the pain had shifted from something destructive to something transformative.

He’s pulled back out of his memory by Webster’s fingers curling around his, as he lifts Joe’s hand to better point out the constellations. Joe can only see the stars as dots, beautiful but formless, but he doesn’t fight it as Webster traces immortal heroes and legends out of dead and dying explosions of gas.

When he angles his head so that he can see Webster’s expression as well as the sky, he sees a look of rapture. Webster has tipped his head back to better be able look at the stars and Joe is captivated by the long line of his bared neck but as he watches he finds his gaze straying upwards, to the soft curve of Webster’s parted lips, the way that the starlight sparkles in his eyes, and he has to admit to himself that he hasn’t been watching Webster with a predator’s gaze for some time. He might want to bite, but he also wants so much more, so many things that he cannot have.

It’s slowly sinking in that if he drinks from Webster that’s it - Joe won’t be able to see him again, because he can’t risk exposing himself like that. Biting Webster would mean giving up the first company he’s had in years that isn’t afraid of him, that is more than just prey, but at the same time he longs for a taste, can’t help the way his eyes drift to Webster’s neck –to the line of his muscle as he turns his head, and the way his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows– and even his wrists sometimes. And it’s not just the thought of biting Webster that sets his predatory instincts alight.

But even if he let himself have Webster only in the carnal sense he’s not sure if he could keep from biting in the heat of the moment. He can picture Webster sprawled on his sheets, his heart would be racing, his blood pounding through his veins to form a pretty flush under his skin, moaning with his head thrown back and his throat exposed, and the thought makes Joe's fangs extend as much as it makes his cock harden. It's a dangerous temptation.

Of course he’ll lose Webster anyway, to the ravages of time and mortality, but that doesn’t mean he had to squander the time he’s got.

He entertains fleetingly the thought of turning Webster. It’s foolish on so many levels, they’ve not even known each other a whole season and even in Joe’s youth, when people were more inclined to commitment and had different expectations, few people were reckless enough to bind themselves in to somebody for life quite so quickly, let alone everlasting life. Joe is greedy with his hungers, but not so much as to drag Webster into the undead for eternity just because he wants to keep him around.

Sooner or later he’ll have to end this, even if Joe could keep his fangs to himself Webster is too smart not to grow suspicious over time, but despite all that Joe wants from Webster, he _needs_ to take this slow, to savour it while it lasts.

He wants every minute of this night committed to memory.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistent chapter lengths whaaat?
> 
> ssshh 12k is a totally acceptable length for a drabble.
> 
> also note all the new tags about blood - vampire action gets real here. apparently my squeamishness doesn't apply in text form.
> 
> it's been wild guys

Joe holds out two weeks.  

Immortality has improved his patience only slightly and his resolve to take things slow and make them last crumbles in the face of Webster's sustained campaign of seduction. He's stood against tanks and armies, but Webster's teasing words and lingering touches are beyond what he can bear.  

Joe almost wishes that there was some particular irresistible act that Webster had performed that had shattered his control but in fact he's just weak in the face of constant temptation. They were eating desert in another of the tiny unsignposted places that Webster prefers, and Webster had a smudge of jam just below his lower lip, inelegant and more adorable than alluring, but Joe couldn't help himself - the invitation back to his apartment just slipped out.   

And now they sit closer than the space demands in the back seat of a shared cab, minutes away from their destination. Neither of them are doing much of job keeping up any sort of pretence that this is going to end in coffee and a polite goodnight. A few minutes into the drive Webster's hand had fallen on Joe's knee and Web has spent the duration of the journey sliding it up Joe's thigh so slowly that Joe would almost think it was accidental were it not for the coy looks that Webster was sneaking in his direction every few minutes. The only thing holding him back from pressing Webster against the seat and showing him that he isn't the only one who can be a tease, is focusing as hard as he can on the fact that they're in a taxi and while Joe has his vices he's not going to be  _that_ guy.  

He's not even sure how much he pays when they finally pull up in front of his building. Enough, certainly, and probably too much, he'd all but tipped out his wallet into the drivers waiting hand.  

The heat doesn't disappear during the minutes it takes to get up to Joe's apartment, but the space between them lets it cool enough that Webster is distracted upon entry by looking about the place curiously. He decides to let Webster stare, walking over to the kitchen area to fetch drinks and taking the moment to remind himself that while he may be indulging he can't do anything reckless. He needs to keep his teeth to himself.  

"Nice place," Webster says. "You have better taste than I'd expect from someone in finance."  

"Oh yeah?" Joe lifts two glasses down from the shelf and after a moments consideration selects a middling whiskey - nice enough to be impressive but nothing so flashy as to be distracting.  

Webster hums. "It's simpler than I'd imagined, less flashy more... home. It suits you though."  

"Did you spend much time imagining yourself in my apartment?" Joe teases, hand Webster his drink.  

Webster takes a sip, nodding appreciatively as he eyes Joe over the rim of the glass. "Are you saying you haven't spent much time imagining me here?" he responds, with a hint of a pout.  

"In my kitchen?" Joe laughs. "Not really." Though he'd pictured Web in plenty of other positions, and now Webster has placed the thought in his mind there was plenty that could be done in a kitchen. He takes a single sip from his own glass and then puts it down on the counter.  

Webster meets his eyes and drains his glass, then steps forward and into Joe's space in order to reach the counter with his own glass.  

He doesn't step back.  

Joe reaches out and slides one hand behind Webster's neck, his fingertips dipping into the fine hair at Webster's nape. It earns Joe the smallest of gasps and in doing so makes it impossible for him not to tip his head up and press his mouth to Webster's parted lips. He can taste the whiskey, a mediocre blend turned addictive tasting it here.  

The feeling of Webster's lips against his own is no less thrilling for the way it's started to become familiar over the past few weeks. He refuses to give into the urgency thrumming within him – there will be time enough for that later if he does things right.  

He keeps his touches sweet, but Webster's body presses hot and hard against his as Joe turns them both so that he can press Webster back against the counter. Then Joe abandon's Webster's lips to scatter kisses up his jaw, gently turning Webster's head so he can brush his lips against the delicate skin behind Webster's ear. He might not be able to taste but he won't deny himself the tantalising feeling of Webster's fluttering pulse beneath his lips. He kisses down Webster’s neck, lets his teeth scrape feather-light over the thinnest skin until he can feel the throb of Web’s artery under his tongue. Normally when he’s this close to someone’s throat their heart is racing, sometimes from fear, sometimes arousal, but always,  _always_ it beats rabbit fast – prey instincts going into overdrive even if they don't know it.  

Webster's is steady like he's only felt once before, sinking newly cut fangs in for a taste of his sire to seal the transformation. Inhumanly slow.  

"Vampire," the word falls from his lips and he can feel Webster stiffen - and not in the fun way.  

Webster twists away and ducks his head, then musters an unconvincing laugh. "Seriously? I don't know what the comic books say, but vampires aren't real.” He's not much of a liar, not when his eyes are darting around the room and he’s still tense all over. The realisation that Joe’s guess is true should be ridiculous but fuck, Webster has never invited Joe anywhere there was a they’d be caught out in daylight and Joe had thought himself lucky, but that’s not it at all.  

“Yes they are,” Joe says, and Webster looks worried, which doesn't make any sense, because if Joe is right –and he knows he is– then he's stronger, faster than any human, a true apex predator, certainly capable of meeting Joe as an equal. Even if he does currently look like a college student who's been called on with a question about forgotten homework.  

"C'mon Joe, this isn't funny," Webster complains, in a valiant attempt at his frequent haughty tone. It’s better than his try at sidestepping the accusation but it’s not great and Joe sighs and shakes his head before he steps back and flashes his own fangs at Web.  

Webster blinks and then his whole body slackens, going limp with shock. "Oh... Oh."  

Joe can’t help but be relieved that he's not been the only one who’d failed to notice such a crucial detail in the past few weeks, although that Webster had slipped past him raises worrying questions. "I thought I was the only one around," Joe says, perhaps not as caught off guard as Webster seems but still reeling from this unexpected discovery, "How long have you been on my hunting grounds?" The words are harsh but they're important, he might like Webster but he can’t have some newly bitten kid whose sire isn't keeping a close enough eye on him running about town and arousing suspicions by drinking incautiously.  

"I haven't. Been hunting,” Webster says, with a confused shake of his head. “I've been on animal blood."  

Joe groans and takes another step back. "Oh fuck, you're one of  _those_." He doesn't interact much with other vampires, their population scattered too thin, but he's met one or two who got all squeamish or stuck up about human blood and he thinks it's fucking stupid. And Webster had seemed so... well not unpretentious, but certainly not the particular sort of obnoxiously irritating that could be found only in vegans and vampires who didn't drink from humans.  

"It's convenient," Webster protests, “And cheap.”  

"It's revolting," Joe corrects, he's used it a few times when he's been in a real pinch and it's sickly and impossible to heat up without ruining the consistency, and the aftertaste lingers for days. Most importantly, it never satisfies like human blood does, only quashes the appetite like drinking water to keep hunger at bay. "The only thing I ever tasted more disappointing than those new bananas."  

"Urgh, god, the bananas," Webster says, looking so aggrieved that it almost balances out the whole animal blood thing. "I never could get used to the taste of the new ones. And it costs a fortune to get the proper ones imported."  

Fuck. The bananas. He’d known the one he’d got from Webster had tasted better than he’d had in years, but it only now hits him that it was because they tasted like the ones he’d grown up with. And he’d called the bananas that most people in this day and age had grown up with  _new_. "Wait, if you remember the old bananas..." He'd assumed that Webster was new to all this but, "When were you turned?"  

"'44," Webster says, and Joe's slow-beating heart comes to a complete stop. " _Nineteen_ -forty-four. I’d been hit in the leg during Operation Market Garden and it should have been a minor wound but-"  

"Market Garden?" Joe interrupts.  

"It was a world war two operation-" Webster starts to explain and Joe cuts him off with a shake of his head.  

It's been a long time, but Joe's years in the paratroopers are still some of the sharpest in his mind and the sudden thought that there might be somebody left who understands even a fraction of what those years were like... "What division?"  

Webster looks at Joe like he's being strange but Joe just waits. "The 101st,” Webster confesses, “The paratroops."  

"Get outta here, you serious?" Joe says, stepping back towards him.  

"Uh, yes?" Webster says, and he's shifting away from Joe a little, and, okay, yeah Joe could see how this line of questioning might be weird for him.  

"I was with the 506th - Easy company," Joe explains, half breathless, and Webster's bright blue eyes go wide.  

"Under Strayer?" he confirms. "Damn. I was in Fox company."  

Joe gapes. The same damn battalion? He'd known guys in Fox. Though he’d obviously never crossed paths with Webster - he might have been being more discreet about his tastes back then but it hadn't kept him from looking, and if he'd laid eyes on a guy in Fox that looked so much like a goddamn movie star and had that aristocratic but smart-mouthed attitude he'd have remembered. How close must they have been though? "Who turned you?” he asks, because how many vampires could their possibly have in second battalion.  

Webster shakes his head. “I don’t know. It wasn’t deliberate, I don’t think. I was bleeding and I think he was trying to feed not turn me, I don’t remember much until I got to hospital and realised I was craving blood. One of the guys on the ward had been in Dog and their CO was one us and not so discreet about it - he knew enough to help me get through, but adjusting was hard. By the time I could’ve returned to the lines without being a risk of ripping somebody’s throat out the first time I got peckish the war was all but done.”  

Joe nods. He’d known that Speirs had been with Dog company before becoming Easy’s leader and given that Joe wasn’t the only guy Speirs had turned instead of accepting as a casualty it’s not such a surprise that members of his former company would also have been aware of his nature. He wonders how many other shared connections they might have - he’d already felt that Webster understood him better than anyone had in years, but now it’s not just something he might be imagining.   

Still, “You can’t have been on animal blood this whole time,” Joe says. Over reliance on animal blood caused weakness and sickness, and until just a few moments ago Joe had assumed that Webster was a living human. If he’d been recently turned he might have been scraping by, but he couldn’t have survived seventy years that way.  

“No, only lately. I just don’t like attacking people and I never got the hang of persuading strangers to let me drink without them freaking out,” Webster explains, “In the fifties some acquaintances formed a commune and I settled there - writers, musicians, artists, there was always someone willing to share their blood, in exchange for the experience. But the population has been dwindling these last decades, and those who stayed…” Webster pulls a face, and Joe can just imagine the sort of people who were still hanging around communes in this day and age. “Well, it was time for me to move on.”    

“So you don’t actually have any objection to drinking from humans?” Lieb confirms.    

Webster shakes his head. “I’ve done it plenty, I’m just out of practise getting started, the animal blood was just to tide me over until I…” his gaze darts down, and Joe realises that Webster is eyeing his neck.    

Holy  _shit_  – “You  _were_  hunting. You were hunting  _me_ ,” he says. All this time Joe has spent luring Web closer, and Webster’s been doing the same damn thing right back to him, in his own awkward manner. And as strange a turn as this evening has taken, goddamn if Joe doesn't want to get back to it.    

“No! Well, I… I didn’t realise you were- I wasn't-” Web starts to babble, almost apologetic, but then Joe tips his chin up, baring his throat, and Webster cuts himself off with a gulp.    

"How long has it been since you had a taste of the good stuff Web?" he asks.    

“I… I shouldn’t?” Webster says uncertainly, but Joe can see the appetite under the nerves. “Joe…”    

"I was about to take a bite out of you," he points out, it's not strictly truthful but god knows he'd wanted to. "C'mon Web, show me your fangs."    

Webster parts his lips slowly, but the moment Joe catches sight of those fangs, fuck, he'd offered his throat as a game, a tease, and a little out of pity for the fact Webster had apparently gone so long without a proper feed, but now for the first time he understands why people are so eager to submit to his bite. He wants those teeth in him.    

"I always heard drinking vampire blood was unhealthy," Webster says, but he's drifting closer, gaze on Joe's throat and hunger in his eyes.     

"Sure," Joe concedes, focus still mainly on Webster’s mouth. "But its unhealthy like chocolate is - worth it." Sweet and addictive, but a thousand times harder to come by, but there’ll be time to find out exactly what Webster tastes like later.    

He can feel Webster’s breath against his neck as Webster leans in, and the feel of his lips ghosting over Joe’s throat it makes it hard to take him seriously as he says, “I ought to have human blood. It’s been too long. I… these are your hunting grounds though…”    

“You can hunt here later, I'll share,” Joe promises, lips curling into a grin around his fangs. “Whatever you want, Webster. Hell, we can go pick somebody up in a Whole Foods and make sure you’re getting the healthiest goddamn blood in the city, I can show you how to get them showing their throat for you and  _begging_  to be bitten-” though, hell, with the way Webster’s ensnared him Joe’s not quite sure what difficulties Webster could be having finding people willing. He doesn’t care. It's been years since he's had someone to hunt with, hunting becoming little more than routine necessity, but company —Webster— might be just what he needs to bring the thrill back to it.     

"Yeah?" Webster breaths are fast as they gust over Joe’s throat, but it's not familiar nervous breathlessness that’s used to hearing from people as their voice catches when Joe's fangs near their throat. Webster's voice is eager with anticipation.    

“Yeah, I know you want me Web,” he says as he threads one hand in the back of Webster’s hair, guiding his mouth to Joe’s pulse. “You can have me.”   

With those words Webster’s fangs sink in and for a moment all Joe can feel is the sharp pain of it but then Webster sucks and Joe’s pain is transformed to ecstasy.    

He lifts one leg up, wrapping it around Webster to pull him closer and in response Webster grabs Joe’s ass, lifting as he straightens out of his hunch and using his supernatural strength to hold Joe up high enough that Webster’s mouth has easy access to his neck. Joe wraps his legs around Webster’s waist, gripping him tight and he can  _feel_ Webster’s hungry growl as it vibrates through his chest. For years he’s been surrounded by fragile, flimsy humans, but Webster is solid against him and his mouth is hot on Joe’s neck as he sucks like he’d spent the last century starving. “Fuck, your fangs feel good in me,” Joe confesses, stroking his fingers through Webster’s hair. No wonder humans were always so easy for this if being bitten normally felt this good, the only thing that could possibly make this better is  _more_ contact and goddamn but being over a hundred years old isn't enough to keep Joe from rutting against Webster’s belly like some horny teen as Webster moans into his neck.   

Joe is ready to let Webster drink for as long as he pleases but it's only a few minutes before Webster pulls away from Joe’s throat, gazing up at him with bloodied lips and intense eyes as he gasps out Joe's name. He's drank enough to sate any physical hunger but he's still looking at Joe like he wants to devour him as he licks his lips, and Joe leans down to kiss him, chasing the stray droplets of his own blood and then sinking his own fangs into Web’s lower lip, finally tasting what he’s craved for weeks. Fuck he's sweet, the taste of him and the small noises he's panting against Joe's mouth and Joe thinks he could enjoy an eternity like this were it not for the tantalising prospect of more.  

"Bedroom," Joe demands, tugging himself away from Webster's lips, and he's expecting Webster to set him down but instead he just ducks his head to lick up the trail of blood dripping from Joe's throat and carries him across the room.  

"Which door?"  

"On the right," Joe says, and instead of letting go of him Webster just kicks it open, a wild edge starting to show and sending a thrill through Joe that makes him shudder. It had been decades since he’d even thought of what it would be like to have a partner with sufficient strength to challenge his own, why dream of the impossible, but as Webster tosses him to the mattress and all but rips away his jeans, he realises he’s about to find out.    

"Light," Webster mutters, "I want to see you," and Joe reaches for the nightstand, fumbling blindly until his hand finds the switch. Finally, it clicks on and fill the room with a dim amber light revealing Webster tugging his shirt over his head. Joe can't believe the noise he makes at the fabric falls to the floor, a desperate little mewl escaping him as he realises that Webster's soft sweaters have been concealing broad arms and a chest of solid muscle that would be strong even without supernatural assistance. If Joe wanted to resist he still could, but he’d have to fight for it, fight like he hasn’t fought in years, and why would he want to when Webster is grasping Joe’s legs with a grip of iron, pushing them up and apart and grinding against him with a ferocity Joe hadn’t even realised he was starving for. He’s spent decades holding himself back, reigning himself in for partners who lacked the strength to handle what he had to give, but Webster stares down at him with a hunger that promises to take it  _all_.  

He can't help the way he babbles as Webster opens him up, gushing words about Web's mouth and teeth and cock and how he should hurry the fuck up because Joe can take it, wants it,  _needs_ it, has unknowingly waited decades for this. It has been so long since anybody has given Joe pleasure; since he's had anything that he didn't have to take and always with such caution, such control; but now he loses himself to the stroke of Webster's long fingers, letting himself feel without needing to think. Webster's touch is clever, confident, he's been using his immortality well and Joe's babbling turns to outright begging, until after far longer than Joe needs Web withdraws his fingers leaving Joe feeling bereft.  

He whines at the pressure of Webster's cock rubbing slickly against his entrance, but it isn’t enough to hurry Webster out of his sudden shift to a leisurely pace. He reaches up, grabbing Web by the shoulder and tugging him, the stretch of it rewarded by the feel of Webster's bare skin against his own, the brush of chest hair as he arches his back, and the light scent of Webster's cologne as Joe mouths over his neck.  

He plunges his fangs into Web’s throat at the same time that Webster sinks into him, the sweet taste of blood flooding his mouth like a high, turning the edge of pain as he’d stretched open into another layer of searing pleasure as he wraps his legs around Webster's back, trapping Web against him as they rock together. 

Every thrust seems to punch deep groans from Webster’s chest and Joe can feel the way the low noises move through Web’s throat. Even as he sucks down hot thick gulps of Webster’s blood he’s moaning, rolling his hips to meet every thrust. He’s used to keeping feeding and fucking separate and both of them coolly efficient. The taste of Webster’s blood, the weight of him pressing Joe down into the mattress as he fills Joe with his cock, overwhelms him with bliss. 

“Seeing your blood on the beach,” Webster confesses suddenly, “It was all I could to keep from grabbing your hand and getting a taste of you.” 

The thought makes Joe’s cock leak where it’s rubbing against Webster’s belly as he imagines Webster’s pouty lips wrapped tight around his fingers as he suckled blood from the scratch, or perhaps Joe tracing his bloodied fingers over the plush flesh, painting Webster’s mouth a scandalous shade of red. 

Webster snakes a hand between them, wrapping strong fingers around Joe’s cock, the added sensation almost more than Joe can bear when his hold body feels like a live-wire as he shivers and jerks beneath Webster. As much as he wants this to last, Joe’s body can’t withstand the onslaught of pleasure and it’s a matter of moments before he’s spilling messily over Webster’s hand and both their stomachs, fangs slipping from Webster’s throat as his whole body goes limp with pleasure.  

Webster takes advantage of Joe’s slackened grip, thrusting harder now, fast and brutal, the jut of his hipbones feeling like they’re leaving bruises. Joe lets himself sink down against the mattress, fingers twisting in the sheets so hard that he can hear a rip of fabric as he admires the feral glint in Webster’s eyes as he ravages his wrung out body.

He can feel Webster’s movements stutter briefly as he screws his eyes shut, grip on Joe going achingly tight as he comes, but he doesn’t stop, letting out a deep satisfied hum as he rolls his hips, teasing out every last thread of pleasure.

When he finally slips out, Joe rolls them both onto their sides, nipping his own lip between his teeth at the exhaustion writ clear across Webster’s features. Joe has drunk heavily from him and still he had the strength to offer Joe the best fuck he’s had in years, but now he’s apparently content to surrender to Joe’s touches as Joe reaches up to skirt his fingers lightly over Webster’s throat. He’s bitten Web deep, the punctures in his throat will need careful treatment if he wants to keep them from scarring, but a part of Joe hopes he doesn’t, hopes he can keep biting Web’s neck and worrying the wound open to taste from him, keep him marked and mark him more. He wants to taste the artery in Web's thigh and drink lazily from the visible veins his wrists. 

Webster’s mouth is stained with a mixture of both of their blood and Joe can feel his own neck still bleeding sluggishly. He hasn’t fed so messily in a long time, the sheets are probably ruined, torn up where he’d gripped them too hard and stained with a mess of blood. He’ll have to dispose of them himself before his cleaner’s next visit, lest she report the place as a murder scene.

Knowing that Webster is like him, that Joe won't have to cut him from his life when Webster starts to close in on his secret changes things, but those changes are too much to mull over when he's well fucked and the decadent taste of Webster's blood still lingers on his tongue. They can talk and think later, Joe’s hook-ups are usually ushered back out of the door by dawn but that hardly applies here, for now he revels in the feel of Webster, wandering hands exploring every inch he can reach, heedless of the bloody prints he’s leaving on his skin. They can shower later, he’s curious to see the effects of hot water and steam on Webster’s curls, but for now he just presses his face to Webster’s shoulder, letting his eyelids droop as darkness seeps up to claim him. 

They’re immortal and they’ve been having fun - there’ll be time enough to figure the rest out as they go. 


End file.
